The Ramblers

by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

  “I’m thinking all this Darwin material served you pretty well, though,” Henry says, a twinkle in his eye. “A bird guru, curator at one of the best museums in the world, professor at an elite university.”

  “I suppose,” Clio says quietly.

  What she does not say: Eloise practically locked Clio, her sole student, in this room to conduct her “lectures” on Darwin’s life and work. He was nearly forbidden from sailing on the Beagle because of the shape of his nose, Clio! He once ate an owl while in the Glutton Club at Cambridge, Clio! He would have been a doctor but couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He was a backgammon fiend! Had a mountain named after him by age twenty-five! Remember: he didn’t actually coin “survival of the fittest”; that was Herbert Spencer! He married his first cousin! He lost faith in Christianity when he witnessed slavery and lost his beloved daughter Annie to scarlet fever when she was only ten. His wife, Emma, filled a small box with Annie’s treasures and kept it with her until her own death.

  “Would you put the Christmas tree in here?” Henry says, squinting, snapping her from the sluice of memories.

  “One of them, yes.”

  There were always several trees. Leading up to the holidays, Eloise talked fast and made grandiose plans and proclamations, but several days of this and she’d be fully manic, ablaze with a cutting desire to make everything perfect. It was always a depressing portrait of excess. Seven pumpkin pies. Four nativity scenes. A tree in every room, decorated with homemade ornaments.

  “What were your Christmases like as a girl?”

  There is a sense of wonder in his eyes and Clio can tell that he’s simply curious, but she finds herself bristling; this simple question makes her recoil.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, seeming to sense her discomfort. “I just want to know things.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I want to tell you, but it’s hard.” Telling is reliving in a way; telling makes it more real. “An example? One Christmas, I took my gifts up to my room and she ducked her head in and told me to clean my room because there was wrapping paper and boxes everywhere. And I was a kid and I stalled and then I heard her coming and without a word, she dumped everything, every single gift and other things too, into a giant garbage bag and took it out to the lawn and burned it in front of me.”

  “My Lord,” Henry says. “You went through hell, Clio.”

  She nods, fighting tears that want to come. “And now she’s gone and now I get to worry about my dad. Lucky me.”

  “What’s he like? You haven’t said much about him.”

  “He’s a good man,” she says, thinking about this, “but it’s been so hard for him. They met in high school. She got pregnant when they were seniors. They had me. They stayed together. And I know he was doing his best, working all those jobs, tending to her impossible needs, but he also enabled her.”

  Even as a girl, Clio was amazed that her father didn’t leave. All of those fights, the howling screams and shattered glasses and delusions of grandeur and bleak months in bed and constant threats of suicide and attempts to burn down this house. Eloise would disappear for days at a time and they’d find her in odd places with odd men, and he just took it. He was her punching bag and Clio had a front-row seat when she wasn’t in the ring herself. And that was the worst, when Eloise turned her aggression on Clio and her father did nothing. He was supposed to protect her, right? But he just treated Clio like this unlucky partner in crime, like they were in this bad situation together.

  His refrain: We’ll have to talk to the doctor about tweaking her meds. But the problem was that most of the time she wouldn’t even take her meds. And Clio could handle it, but it devastated her that her father was never present for the other stuff. The science fairs and school plays and soccer games. She didn’t want her mother on the sidelines, but he could have found a way to be there. He made his priority clear; he was always working or tending to the ever-unpredictable Eloise.

  “Did you have a service?” he says.

  “A small one,” Clio says. “Just my father and me and Jack and his parents. We went to the cemetery for the burial and came back here to the house. I made egg salad because it was her favorite.”

  “Did she leave a note?” he asks, and then backpedals. “I’m sorry. Am I asking too many questions?”

  Clio shakes her head no. It surprises her that his questions are welcome, that she wants to tell him these things. “She didn’t leave a note, but trust me, I tore this place up looking for one.”

  “Of course you did,” he says, taking her hand and holding it.

  “Even now,” she says, looking around, “I wonder if there’s some place I haven’t looked. I find myself holding out for this secret letter of apology. It’s really pathetic.”

  “It’s not pathetic,” he says, taking her shoulders, pinning her with his eyes. “It’s human. It only makes sense that you want to understand.”

  Clio nods. Leads the way to her bedroom. She hears a sound. And it takes a good minute to register that the sound is coming from her. She’s weeping. Huge, heaving sobs shake her entire body. Henry grabs her from behind, drapes his hands around her, kisses the top of her head again and again.

  “I’m just so angry,” she says, her words weak, her eyes brimming with tears. “I know she was sick and in pain, but how selfish is it to end your life? And I’m angry because it’s always been about her. I’m so tired of this. I’m sorry to unload all of this on you. It’s just a lot to be back here.”

  She catches her breath, startled that she’s telling him all of this. Henry spins her around to face him, pulls her down to sit on the bed. She looks at him, his gently lined, handsome face, the silvery shadow of stubble on his chin, the endless blue of his Irish eyes. She kisses him, pulls away.

  “Stop apologizing,” he says, putting his forefinger to her lips. She opens her mouth and takes his finger in. Looks at him. He pulls his finger from her lips and traces a line down to her chin, then to her neck, and lower and lower, until he’s tugging at the button of her shirt.

  “I’ve never wanted you more,” she says.

  Clio unbuttons her own shirt and peels it off. Henry buries his head between her breasts. She pushes him back on the little bed and climbs on top of him. He’s hard beneath her; she can feel it through his jeans. He scrambles to unbuckle his belt as she kisses his neck, bites his earlobe. It only takes a moment or two and he’s inside her and it occurs to her that the window is open, that someone might see, that Jack might see, but this only turns her on more. She rocks back and forth fast and hears him moan and he holds his hand to her mouth and she kisses it again and again and again and she screams out, louder than she’s ever screamed maybe, and he pinches her side as he does when he finishes and when she stops screaming she opens her eyes and looks down at him and smiles.

  They lie there. Pressed against each other in the tiny bed.

  He points at the ceiling. “Tell me about the stars,” he says, his voice still husky.

  “Eloise and I put them up,” she says. “I remember that day. She stood on my father’s ladder. She knew everything about every constellation. That was a good day.”

  “So there were good days?”

  “There were,” she says, thankful for the reminder. Eloise could be magically present: humorous, ebullient, deeply curious about the smallest details. Nothing, to her, was meaningless. Everything was of consequence, worth learning about. Let’s look it up, she’d say about the odd-shaped cloud in the sky, the dead bug on the driveway. These were characters and stories, part and parcel of an ineffably ordered cosmos. When she was flying, her enthusiasm would ripple through everything. She’d present gifts from tag sales, she’d pontificate about her latest theory about self and world.

  “I’ve noticed that sometimes you call her Eloise and sometimes your mother.”

  “Yeah,” Clio says. “Depends on the memory. If it’s a tough one, it’s easier if she’s Eloise.”

  A sound comes from downstairs
.

  “Shit,” she says. “My dad.”

  “Shit!” he says, shooting up.

  And they are laughing like kids, scrambling for their clothes. She slips into the bathroom and fixes herself in the mirror.

  “Pull yourself together, Mr. Kildare, and come say hello,” she says, kissing him once more, running off.

  6:11PM

  “This is Henry, Dad.”

  In the kitchen, her father takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair. He walks to the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer.

  “Hey, Dad,” she says.

  He turns and smiles and Clio can see it in his face that he’s nervous.

  “Henry will be down in a minute,” she says, but Henry is right behind her. She meets his eye and his face relaxes and wordlessly she ushers him over.

  “This is Henry, Dad,” Clio says. The word Dad sounds strange as she says it. She hasn’t called him this in a long time. William or my father, yes, but not Dad. A therapist once said this is what children do to distance themselves from their parents. “And, Henry, this is my father.”

  “It’s great to meet you,” Henry says, his voice firm, filled with confidence.

  “You too,” her father says, and nods.

  They shake hands.

  Clio hangs back and watches and as she does, she appreciates that this is a sight she never truly expected to see. They are both tall, almost exactly the same height—a touch more than six feet two—and they have similar builds. Wiry but strong. She realizes how on edge she is, how much she cares, that this is probably a good sign.

  “Quick beer before you go?” her father says.

  “That would be lovely,” Henry says, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. He catches Clio’s eye and she smiles.

  So far, so good.

  Her father returns with the beers and they all sit.

  “Clio says you work in construction?” Henry says.

  “For more than thirty years,” her father says, and takes a long swig of his beer. “Since I was practically a kid.”

  “What are you working on now?” Henry asks.

  “We’re remodeling an old building not far from here to create an ambulatory care center for Yale–New Haven Hospital. It’s fast-track project and there’s a watertight budget, so it’s been a bit crazy at times but also kind of interesting. There will be a radiology center and a lab. One of those jobs where I feel like I’m doing some good.”

  Henry smiles. “Well, I must say I have a great deal of admiration for the work you do. Just finished construction on my hotel and am floored by the amount of intense coordination and skill that goes into these projects. We had a million hiccups, but the windows alone nearly killed me. We were hoping to salvage the old ones, but we were inspected and needed to retrofit.”

  “Which ones did you end up installing?”

  “We went with the Marvin double-hung Magnums,” Henry says. “They look great but cost us a pretty penny.”

  “They’re good, though,” her father says, nodding. “Tried and true.”

  Clio sinks deeper into her chair and feels the rise and fall of her own breath. For a brief moment, the tangle of voices becomes muted and distant and she thinks to herself: They are talking shop. They are discussing windows. This is going okay.

  Clio checks her watch. It’s 6:31. “Henry, I need to get you to the train.”

  Henry smiles. “Oh, how I’d prefer to stay, but duty calls.” He takes a final sip of his beer and shakes her father’s hand. “It was good to meet you. I hope we have more than fifteen minutes next time.”

  “So do I,” her father says, standing and taking the beer bottles to the counter. “It’s probably a good thing you’re getting out of here anyway. Otherwise, I might have gotten you all liquored up and grilled you about your intentions for my daughter.”

  A lifting. Clio hears herself laughing, feels her body relaxing even more. When’s the last time she heard her father crack a joke? And where did this protectiveness come from? It’s something she’s always longed for, to have a parent look out for her. Maybe it’s not too late. She looks at her father, catches his eye, and grins.

  “Ah, I look forward to my day of pickling and grilling,” Henry says. “Soon, I hope.”

  “Soon,” her father says.

  At the station, Clio parks and walks Henry inside.

  “Thank you,” she says, “for coming here. It means so much that you did this.”

  He takes her face in his hands. “I’m so happy I came. That you opened up to me, that you took me to the cemetery, to the house, that I met your old man.”

  Clio laughs. “If he’s old, you’re old, Henry. He isn’t that much older than you.”

  “Well then, I’m old. Old and madly in love with a certain irresistible young thing. I love you, Clio. I love you even more than I did this morning. I didn’t know that was possible.”

  Clio feels herself smile. His words are needed and she feels thankful for them; her body literally relaxes with relief. It’s another one of those moments; this man, this thoughtful man, is saying these things to her.

  “What’s my Christmas present?” he begs her playfully. “Now I’m the one who can’t handle surprises.”

  She shakes her head. “You and me both. You’ll have to wait and see.”

  A baby cries. It’s not a soft cry but a shrill, desperate howling, and Clio follows the sound. The baby is blond, wears pink. She wriggles in her mother’s arm, flails madly to get down. The mother holds tight to her child, keeps her cool and kisses her daughter’s head again and again, but the tantrum continues. Clio is transfixed. She stares at the scene, her body tightening with each shriek. Henry stands next to her as she feels herself fraying. She’s dizzy. She grabs on to him.

  “Clio? You were fine a moment ago.”

  And she was. He holds her up. She stares at the mother and child. She’s six again. Six or seven. Sobbing on the cold floor of a grocery aisle. Eloise has left her clutching the box of chocolate chip cookies. She finds Eloise examining fat green watermelons, her eyes angry. What’s wrong with you, Clio? she says. Stop crying right now. You’re making a scene.

  “Clio,” Henry says, snapping her back. “Clio.”

  “I can’t do this to you, Henry,” she says. “You deserve someone who doesn’t fall apart like this. You deserve someone who can give you kids. You deserve better.”

  “Clio,” he says, taking her face between his hands. “I want you.”

  She pulls away, shakes him off her. “I just don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You are not your mother, Clio,” Henry says, his words loud now. People are watching. The baby stops crying. “How the hell do you think I feel knowing my mother died of bloody cancer at sixty-one? That she was suffering for months on end and couldn’t even eat and died in terrible, crippling pain? None of us is immune to suffering, Clio. You can’t go through life putting up walls to protect yourself from pain or grief. I’ve been around long enough to tell you there’s no use.”

  She looks up at him. He’s shaking now. His pale blue eyes are glossed with tears.

  “I know,” Clio says.

  He waits. He waits for her to say something more, but she can’t. The words are stuck inside her.

  “I need to make my train,” he says. “You know exactly where to find me.”

  Clio nods. And she waits for him to say I love you, but he doesn’t this time.

  And like that, he’s gone. She’s alone again. Her heart thumps wildly in her chest and she stands there frozen, the world swirling around her, the muted sounds of people going places a grating static in her ears.

  8:04PM

  “You’ll figure it out as you go.”

  She drives and drives, her hands gripping the wheel, the world blurry through a curtain of fresh tears. More than an hour slips by as she makes her way through the streets of her hometown, her college town, her past.

  When she pulls up back at the house, she thinks she
sees something, a flutter of movement, a shadowy figure by the swing set, and her heart drops. She squints in the darkness, walks over. No one’s there. Just the three swings, one for each of them. The center one is the one her mother chose. It’s still broken, the rope cut and looped, dragging in the grass. Clio sits on the swing she always thought of as hers.

  Eloise hanged herself here, inches from where Clio sits now, swinging like a child. Why couldn’t it have been pills like the first time? Why did she have to go and ruin this, this one happy object from growing up? This is the closest Clio’s gotten to it since it happened. She takes the rope and holds it, runs her hands over it, memorizes its roughness.

  She swings. She cries. Thinks about how her father has been too sad, too paralyzed probably, to tear the swing set down, how he must look at it every single day.

  She sends Henry a text.

  Clio: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. I hope you know that.

  He doesn’t respond. She doesn’t blame him.

  She swings, her cold hand wrapped around the rope. Her father has always loved building things. This was his first of many swing sets. An accidental side business was born. He made swing sets for Yale professors and their families, and sometimes Clio would tag along as he went to install them, glimpsing big homes and charmed lives and kids with different childhoods. It was work that made her father happy; Clio could see this, and that it heartened him to bring in some extra cash for the family, which they sorely needed once her mother could no longer teach and started going on her spending sprees. In doing her research, Clio would learn that financial irresponsibility was a hallmark of the disease, a telltale symptom of mania. They’d inherited the house from her grandmother June, but it cost something to maintain and it was always a question whether they’d be able to hold on to it.

  She looks up. In the darkness, she sees Jack approaching on the lawn. He appears beside her, clutching an extra coat and a steaming mug. He wraps the coat around her and hands her the mug. He lowers to sit on the other swing.

  Clio takes a sip. It’s hot chocolate. Her childhood favorite. Jack’s mother used to make them hot chocolate every winter and they’d pass the plastic bag of mini-marshmallows back and forth between them, refilling and refilling, making themselves sick.